I start out in a bag. I have traveled hither and yon and finally arrived in a cool and arid room. I hear the sound of paper tearing as I am blinded by a fluorescent glow. A steady hand reaches in a carefully measures me as I am sifted into the bottom of a stainless steel mixing bowl. A metal paddle is lowered into the bowl where I am being mixed with other dry ingredients. Next, I feel cool moisture, as eggs are added, and then gooey density as the creamed butter and sugar are added to the mixing bowl. The paddles of the mixer whip me into a smooth batter. I feel a sense of buoyancy as air bubbles build throughout my mixture.
I am scooped into a cute little paper cup and nestled with my siblings in a pan fashioned with special sections just for us. I'm just settling in when I hear a distinctive “ding,” which must be important as there seems to be a flurry of activity in the… What was the word they used? Oh yeah, kitchen.
Suddenly the pan in which we are sitting is being lifted, and I hear the sound of metal against metal. We are in some sort of box with a window. Is it hot in here, or am I just nervous? No, it is hot; very hot! I feel myself rising: inflated, elevated, as a crust begins to form on my topside. “Hey, are you watching out there? I'm getting a little brown on top.” I hear another sound, this time it’s a “beep,” and the next thing I know we are being swiftly taken from the hot box. Whew, the feeling of cooler air and return of the fluorescent glow. I hear the mixer again. I hope it's not for me.
My brethren and I have been taken from the muffin pan and relocated to a counter. There seems to be a renewed flurry of activity. Excitement fills the air. I hear the baker say, “Now comes the fun part!” I feel a comfortable weight on my top as something creamy is being piled on. Is this what it feels like to go to a salon? I certainly feel spoiled, as I am being frosted and decorated. A quick peek in the reflection of the adjacent window reveals my embellishments. I am fabulous if I do say so myself!
I'm placed on a platter, just before I hear a terrible splat. One of my cupcake cousins has hit the floor; a sacrifice to the baking Gods. The sound of a dog licking the remains tells me that my comrade has not died in vain. I am set out amidst a chorus of “Oooohs” and “Ahhhhs” from the awaiting audience. No sooner has the platter hit the table when I am swept up by determined hands, my pretty paper dressing cast aside. I feel exposed and anxious with anticipation. This is what I was made for, this final moment. I hope I am all that he wished for! The last sound I hear, “Mmmmmm….” Yes I was.
